A Broken Wrist, a Mended Friendship
by District4-divergent-nephilim
Summary: Part two of three in my Cato/Clove stories. What happens when Cato accidentally hurts Clove? Can she ever forgive them? Is there a relationship in their future?


**This is part two of three in my Cato/Clove saga. You should probably read Natural Behavior first, then Too Late to Love after.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. Or Cato. Or Clove.**

"Give up, Clover; you'll never be able to beat me!" Cato shouts. "In your dreams, sword boy! You know we'll both win the games!" I growl back.

He rolls his eyes. We grapple with each other, both of us struggling to gain the upper hand.

Suddenly his right hand's grip loosens and slips out mine. I arch an eyebrow. What is he going to do? His hand darts towards my stomach.

Ugh, I should have known not to combat with Cato. He never plays by the rules. Even I know that you're not supposed to punch someone in the head, neck, or stomach.

But instead of punching me, he starts tickling me. I double over, laughing, and gasp out that he's cheating again. He gains the upper hand in the fight as his free hand becomes locked into mine again.

Slowly, he beats me down until he has me pinned to the ground. SNAP. I feel a burst of pain.

Cato hears it and eases his grip on my hands immediately. I sit up and hold my arms out in front of me. My right wrist throbs in pain as it dangles in an odd position.

"You… you broke my wrist," I say calmly, trying to contain my anger and the threat of tears from the pain. "I'm so sorry, Clover, it was an accident. I'll walk you to the nurse's office if you want me to," he says apologetically.

My voice rises into a scream when I hear his obliviousness. "This is my throwing arm, Cato! Now I'll never win the games, and it's all YOUR fault!" His eyes widen and he bows his head in shame. I stand up and flee from the room.

~The nurse's office~

"Do you think I'll ever be able to throw knives with this arm again?" I ask the nurse, a frail old lady who looks like she's been the nurse for a century. She shakes her head as she continues to bandage my wrist. I hang my head in disappointment.

I used to think that Cato and I would be victors together. He would win the Quarter Quell, and I would win the 78th games. I only met Cato about ten months ago, right after the 72nd games.

He was a fifteen year old in the sixteen class, so we were the youngest there. He had been in the sixteen class for a year already, and he wasn't that far in age from them anyway, so he had tons of friends.

I was four years younger, and I was never good at making friends, so I had pretty much none. My first day, Cato sat with me at lunch, so I was instantly accepted by the boys in the class.

The fact that Cato was my best friend did not endear me to the girls, though. They all had crushes on Cato, and then this tiny twelve-year old (me) steals him from under their noses.

They were jealous of my skill with throwing knives, too. But I followed Cato's advice and just ignored them.

I finally thank the nurse and head to my locker. Along with training, we have classes every Friday. It's mostly art and music stuff, because every victor needs a hobby. Only the best of the best can take the classes, though. The others don't come to training at all on Fridays. I take drawing, and Cato takes sculpting.

I keep all of my sketches in my locker. Sometimes I draw previous victors or my brothers, but mostly I draw Cato. I take a few of my Cato sketchings and my belt of knives from the locker and head to a private target room.

I close the door behind me and walk the five yards to the targets. I pin the sketches of Cato to the targets and walk the five yards back. I clip the belt around my waist and line myself up with the target as I pull four knives from the belt. Time to start training my left arm to throw.

One flies through the air and misses the target completely, lodging itself in the wall. A tear comes to my eye, and I close them to hold it back. I've never missed a target, not even on my first day of training, when I was nine years old.

I throw more and more knives. Each one completely misses. Tears start rolling down my cheek I've only cried once before, when my brother stabbed my leg with a piece of glass. I didn't even cry when my dad died.

I throw even more, but they're still missing completely. I decide that, if by the end of the hour, I don't get one knife on the target, I'm quitting training completely. I'll never see or talk to Cato again.

Instead, I'll sit in front of the TV during his games and hope that he dies brutally. It's the best I can do, after what he has done to me. He has stolen my chance at fame and glory.

I collect all the knives lodged in the wall and start again. I miss every time. I glance at the clock. Ten minutes left. I throw another set. They all miss. I plop down on my butt and start sobbing, with a knife in my hand.

A hand rests itself on my shoulder. I've learned that since everyone in my class is taller than me, I should swing my weapon higher than my shoulder. I've gooten used to it over the past few months. My knife slices through the skin on Cato's cheek.

"Well, I guess we're even now," he jokes as he uses his jacket to stop the bleeding. I go to say the word we, but I catch myself just in time. "You and I are not even at all, Cato Stone. Now I will never be a victor, all because of you."

"It was an accident, Clover," he whines. "It doesn't matter if it was an accident or not. I'll never be able to throw with my right hand again, and I've spent two hours trying to at least hit the target throwing with my left! And don't call me that! I hate that nickname!"

I give myself a mental high-five as a look of hurt and disbelief flashes across his face. "But I gave you that nickname the day I met you. I don't want to stop calling you that." "I have a knife in my hands. You might not want to disagree with me."

He sighs. "You're the strongest person I know, Clove. You can't just give up!" "Watch me. I can no longer throw knives, and I'm not pretty enough to get a lot of sponsors. And I'm definitely not big enough to be marked as strong," I say superiorly. "Are you kidding me? You're smart, you're strong, you're confident, you're beau- "I don't want to hear your jabber. Leave me alone."

"I can help you train if you want," he offers. I turn away and stick my nose in the air. "There's nothing you can do anymore. I don't need your help. Now leave. I don't want to see you ever again, Cato Stone."

I really want to turn around to see the look on his face, but I must stay strong. "Okay then, Clover. Talk to me if you change your mind. My offer to help still stands." "Right, and your big head still sits on your shoulders, so…" I hear the door close.

I walk back to my locker after about five minutes. I stuff everything into my backpack and walk to the front. "I'm leaving. Take my name off the roll call," I tell the lady at the front desk. She blinks in surprise, but busies herself in finding the list with my name on it.

"You're always welcome if you want to come back, Ms. Araino," she says. "Thanks for the offer, but I don't think I'll be coming back." I walk out the big bronze doors and head for my house.

~Three months later~

"Jordan, don't rip that picture up!" I throw my pen at my eleven year old brother as he rips up one of my sketchings of Cato. The pen misses him completely, even though my wrist has completely healed. Another reminder of my failure. "Who's this?" he teases. "My best fr- a boy in my class," I tell him.

"What's his name?" my brother asks. "Cato Stone," I say, gritting my teeth. My oldest brother is super annoying. Now, you might ask why I still have my drawings of Cato, but I just couldn't bring myself to throw them away, as much as I tell myself that I hate him.

"Cato and Clover sittin' in a tree, K-I-S- "I don't like him! And don't call me Clover!" I scream. Then I burst into tears. "He used to call me that!" I sob. Jordan rolls his eyes and walks out of my room.

I had forgotten what it's like to be with my brothers 24/7. And to tell you the truth, I miss Cato. He had always taken my mind off my family problems. After three months, I just can't handle it anymore.

"I'm going back to training!" I yell as I grab my backpack. I glance at the clock. Good, it's just about the time when I would leave for training regularly. My mom doesn't answer me, as usual. Probably too busy tutoring my three youngest brothers.

I walk to the training center and prepare to swallow my pride. When I walk into the lobby, the secretary smiles knowingly. I see her check my name back onto the list. I put my stuff back into my locker, then tell the lady I'm doing a whole day of private training to work on my broken wrist. She nods and crosses my name off the list again.

I grab my knives and head to the private room. After seven hours, I finally manage to land five on the outer ring of the target. I feel better when I see my improvement. I peek my head out of the door when I hear the final bell ring.

I spot Cato walking down the hall to his locker, which is next to mine. His shoulders are hunched as he puts his things up. "Hey, Cato, want to hang out after training tomorrow?" one of his friends yells. "No, I'd rather be alone," he says, dejected.

I know he trains extra on Thursdays, so I wait until I see him head into the sword classroom to enter it. He's hacking away at a dummy, carving something into its chest with his knife. I move a little to the side so I can see it. It's a carving of a four-leaf clover.

"You know, you're not that bad at carving," I say. He jumps about a foot in the air. "I knew you'd come back eventually. What made you decide to return?" he says, grinning. "My brothers," I say, wrinkling my nose. He nods knowingly. Once they had a bring-your-sibling-to-training day, and my youngest brother, Nathaniel, had bitten him.

"Look, I'm sorry for acting like I did. I know it was an accident," I say. "It's okay, Clover," he says. "Is your offer to help me train still… open?" I ask hopefully. "When do you want to start?" "How about... right now?"

~Four days later~

Cato sits on the bench and closes his eyes. We've been doing the knife training for two hours now. "Hold on, I just thought of something!" I practically shout.

I've been thinking of things to do differently the entire practice, and none of them have worked. But this one will work, I'm sure of it. Cato opens his eyes tiredly.

I line myself up with up with the target. I realize now that I've been throwing with my left arm, but lining myself up with the target like I'm throwing with my right. The knife sails through the air and lands dead center. I shriek with joy. Cato jumps up, picks me up, and twirls me through the air before hugging me.

Then it happens, and I fall completely, utterly in love. Cato Stone kisses me.

And I kiss him back.


End file.
